The 28-Year-Old Virgin
by Chinese Bakery
Summary: When Mack and Hunter discover that Fitz, their shy and secretive colleague, is entirely inexperienced with women, they decide to help him out– whether he likes it or not. A 40-Year-Old-Virgin Fitzsimmons AU.
1. 50 Or 60 Years

_This story was written in response to the FitzSimmons Network Rom Com Challenge. Much thanks to LetterToElise and Amanda Rex for beta-reading._

* * *

"I don't know," Hunter sneered. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"C'mon, you know we could use another player," Mack insisted, impassive. "I'm tired of wasting my evenings waiting for you to respawn."

Both men were standing side by side in front of the flat-screen TVs with their arms crossed over their chest, surveying the far corner of the store where Shield Tech's repair booth stood.

"It's just, he looks so…"

"–lonely?" Mack suggested.

"–weird," Hunter finished at the exact same time, with a slight grimace of unease.

Mack rolled his eyes. From where they were standing, they could see the booth's occupant glancing nervously in their direction, aware of their scrutiny. It had been a few months since Leo Fitz had started at Shield Tech. The clients loved him. Not only could he bring any electronic equipment back to life, but the rumor was spreading that he didn't stop at fixing things– he improved most devices he was handed, too.

Still, the staff remained wary of him. He did look a bit odd, with his nerdy-patterned ties and his stuffy suit jacket while the other staffers wore polos and slacks. In addition, the curly mop on his head was one missed hairdressing appointment away from bursting into a full-blown afro. He didn't talk much, and when he did, no one could tell if he was joking or not. For the most part, he kept to himself and rarely left his booth, much to everyone's unspoken relief.

Hunter shook his head. "Oh, come on!" he hissed. "Have you heard him talk to himself? I'm pretty sure that he's a serial murderer."

"He's a nice guy," Mack countered confidently. "Just, you know. Maladjusted."

"I would rather avoid having him readjust me into a lampshade, is all I'm saying."

Mack straightened, towering over the shorter man, and raised an eyebrow. "I'll protect you."

* * *

"Turbo, my man!" Mack's voice must have sounded ominously cheerful, because Fitz seemed to recoil slightly toward the back of his booth. "Do you have any plans later on tonight?"

Getting a hold on himself, Fitz gulped and rolled his chair back toward his visitors. "Why? Do you need your carburetor fixed again?"

"No, no," Mack gestured placatingly with his hands. "Hunter and I were planning to play some Halo. Do you want to join?"

"With you guys?" Fitz looked entirely taken aback. "Mmh. Sure. Sure, that'd be… sure."

"Do you know how to play?" Hunter piped in from behind Mack's imposing form.

"Yeah." Fitz shrugged. "Yeah, I play online, sometimes."

"We're gonna play in the store," Hunter supplied with a hint of defiance.

"Great," Fitz replied automatically, before he seemed to think it over, furrowing his brow. "Is it… Are we allowed to do that?"

"Absolutely not," Hunter replied cheerfully.

"Yeah," Mack said at the exact same time.

"Oh." Fitz glanced to one, then the other. "Well, sorry, but I gotta tell Melinda about this." He watched, straight-faced, as both men's expression soured, before he cracked a smile. "I'm kidding. Just kidding. This sounds great. I'll see you guys tonight."

"If he kills us both," Hunter muttered as he and Mack walked back to their respective sales stations, "I'm gonna freaking kill you."

* * *

Fitz had to admit, playing Halo in the store after hours was pretty sweet. There was the little thrill of the forbidden of course, but they got to use the biggest screen in the place, the one clients kept gaping at but never, ever bought. They even used the oddly comfy, fluffy poufs from the children's aisle, and the top notch ergonomic and improved controllers that cost nearly as much as the console itself, taking the experience from great to decadent.

Mack and Hunter were not bad players, but Fitz had been playing in a pretty competitive guild several nights a week for the past six years. He'd determined early in the evening that he'd better let himself be shot at regular intervals so the guys didn't feel bad and, hopefully, would let him join again.

He still wasn't sure why they'd thought to invite him. They rarely talked during their shifts and, if Mack had always been reasonably friendly, Hunter seemed as wary of him as most of the other Shield Tech employees. The fact remained that they had asked him to tag along, unprompted, and he was secretly thrilled about it. Shy and grumpy, Fitz had few real life friends.

As the evening progressed and empty beers began piling up at their feet, the conversation grew easier, more fluid, although, to Fitz's dismay, it kept veering back to one subject only.

"I asked Elena out," Mack said a propos of nothing as he opened another bottle.

Hunter almost dropped the remote. "Elena? From Security?"

"Yup," Mack confirmed with a lopsided smile.

"She hates his guts," Hunter stage whispered for Fitz's benefit, while his eyes remained glued to the screen.

Mack's easy smile turned into a self-deprecating smirk. "She's warming up to me."

"Did she say yes?" Hunter insisted, his tone wry.

Mack's smile grew blinding as he answered, "Nope."

Fitz couldn't help but grin at Mack's admission and Hunter's ensuing loud snort.

"It's okay," Mack chuckled, shaking his head, his smile never faltering. "I always knew it was an uphill battle. I'll win her over, eventually."

"That's what I used to say about Bob," Hunter said ominously. "Run, my friend. Run before it's too late."

Perhaps sensing Fitz's curious stare, Hunter turned back to clarify, "Bob is short for Barbara. My ex-wife."

"Oh." Fitz nodded in understanding.

"Don't believe a word Hunter says about her," Mack warned. "She's great."

"The greatest psychopathic demon-spawn, maybe," Hunter countered, before he turned to Mack and muttered, "traitor."

Mack rolled his eyes and opted to ignore his friend entirely. "What about you, Fitz? Any lucky lady?"

Fitz winced slightly. He'd been hoping, albeit faintly, that the focus of their chatter wouldn't turn to his love life, or absence thereof. He wasn't a great liar. When he'd first started working the repair booth, he'd tried to stick to the Shield Tech Employee Handbook, but he could barely look customers in the eye when he told them that yes, their piece of crap electronics were worth his time and their money or that buying a ridiculously overpriced DVD player-recorder in the age of Tivo was a good investment. Thankfully, no one had seemed to mind once he'd started telling it like it was. In fact, customers seemed to like him more for it.

"Mmh, yeah– sure. Lots," he tried unconvincingly. To his dismay, he could feel his ears growing hot. "I really get around," he added, wincing at the sheer idiocy of that statement.

"Anyone we know?" Hunter pressed.

"Probably not," Fitz replied, shrugging stiffly. His posture was rigid with unease, something Hunter picked on immediately.

Mack glanced warily at the pair. "Come on, guys, are we here to play or what?"

"You don't look too sure." Hunter narrowed his eyes at Fitz.

"Hunter," Mack said warningly.

"Look, man. If you're into dudes, that's cool with us. You don't have to pretend to be someone you're not alright? Hell knows, I envy your lot sometimes. I'm pretty sure no guy could ever be as evil, manipulative, twisted–"

"I'm not gay, alright?" Fitz exclaimed before rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hand. His entire face felt hot now, his embarrassment obvious to anyone watching. "I just–" He sighed as mortification set in before he even tried to explain. "I don't have an ex. I never– I mean, there were a few girls I liked, and I tried to tell them how I felt but I guess they didn't feel the same way, so…"

"Wait a minute." Hunter's eyes widened as comprehension dawned. "Are you a–"

"Hunter!" Mack barked.

"–virgin?!"

* * *

"It's okay. It's gonna be okay. They had a few drinks. Surely they'll have forgotten by morning," Fitz told himself as he stared blindly at his bedroom's ceiling in the dark, his covers raised up to his chin. "And even if they don't, they wouldn't tell anyone, would they?"

Hunter had been very interested in Fitz's admission. Possibly too interested. He'd immediately followed up with a barrage of questions, each more tactless than the last, which Fitz had refused to answer, on principle. Hunter had also mentioned that things made a lot more sense now, whatever that meant.

Mack had looked desolate and apologetic, but every attempt he made at changing the subject was conscientiously ignored by Hunter until Fitz finally announced that it was getting late and it was time for him to go. He'd ridden his bike in a state of frenzied panic all the way home, pedaling like a maniac and earning a few outraged honks from drivers as he zigzagged his way between lanes, muttering words of self-reassurance under his breath.

Fitz didn't sleep a wink that night, his brain wide awake and stuck in a loop of unspeakable panic.

* * *

The next morning, his entire body felt heavy and stiff as he rode back to the mall. "No one will say a thing," he muttered to himself as he chained his bicycle in the bike parking just outside of Shield Tech's outside entrance. "Even if they know." Surely people were too polite, too civil to point out such a thing to his face.

And yet, people were staring, Fitz found as he passed the automatic doors. Some of them were staring and whispering at the same time.

Fitz cautiously crossed the store in the direction of his booth, keeping his fingers crossed that he could make it all the way there without having to engage in an actual interaction, when Gareth, the jerk from the Extended Warranty department, surged unexpectedly from the hipster headphones aisle.

"Is it true, Fitzy? Are you really unpopped? How sweet." Gareth was smirking viciously, waving his cup of irish-smelling coffee at him. He pointedly sneered in the direction of Fitz's crotch. "Use it or lose it, kid."

"That's out of line, man." Mack's booming voice sounded irate, but Fitz was too crestfallen to even look in his direction.

It was a fight or flight situation.

Fitz bolted out of the store, running as fast as he could, running for his life. What he hadn't expected, unfortunately, was that Hunter was a much faster runner than he was, or that Hunter would run after him in the first place.

"Come on, mate," the Englishman shouted after him, sounding barely short of breath while Fitz was definitely hyperventilating. "Gareth is a jerk. Ignore him. We all do!"

"I hate you," Fitz panted, turning random lefts and rights, hoping against all hopes that he might somehow lose Hunter. "I have to quit now! I likedthis job."

"Oh, come on. You don't have to quit. No one will say a thing about it again. Mack will make sure of that."

"I think–" Fitz stopped abruptly and slid down to his knees, clutching his chest. That was more running than he'd done over the past decade combined, and he felt appropriately sick. "I think I'm having a heart attack?"

Hunter was next to him in an instant, clutching his wrist and surveying him attentively. After a beat, his mouth twisted in a tight, lopsided smile.

"Nothing a cold one can't fix," he announced, clapping on Fitz's shoulder. "Come on."

* * *

"But how– how did it happen?" Hunter asked, a look of genuine concern on his face.

"How did it happen?" Fitz repeated with a grimace, unsure how to even begin answering the question. He took a gulp from his beer and winced slightly– it felt weird, drinking at 9AM, but Hunter had been adamant this conversation couldn't be held over cappuccinos.

"Yeah. How. You're a good looking guy. Surely there must have been... occasions."

"Not really," Fitz shrugged self-consciously. "See, I was a bit of prodigy. Graduated from high school at age thirteen. Went on to have a PhD before I turned 17. I wasn't exactly a social butterfly, and there were never any girls my age around– if there had been, I was too achingly shy to talk to them, anyway. And older girls, they didn't look at me like that. I was small and nerdy, looked even younger than my age."

"Wait. How did a prodigy with a PhD go on to work the repair booth at Shield Tech?"

Fitz huffed a deep sigh. "A combination of bad luck and bad temper, I guess. I was a promising young engineer, but I could never get along with anyone I was paired with. I guess I'm better left alone."

"I don't believe that," Hunter stated earnestly.

"I like working the repair booth," Fitz confessed with a small grin. "I like making poorly-designed devices a little less infuriating."

"Fair enough." Hunter raised his beer and took another large gulp. "So you like fixing things, that's fine. But you can't possibly like being– I mean, don't you feel lonely?"

Fitz felt himself grow defensive. "Hey, I live a very fulfilling life, okay? I have friends– lots of friends. From the guild, mostly, but–" He paused, raking his fingers through his hair. "I collect things. Action figures, comics and– and monkeys."

Hunter waved him away. "That's all great, man, whatever floats your boat, but–"

"Look, what I'm trying to say is– I've kind of accepted the fact that it isn't happening for me."

Hunter looked taken aback. He set his glass on the table and crossed his arms over his chest, thinking.

"How old are you, Fitz?" he asked after a few beats, eyeing him curiously. "23? 24?"

"28," Fitz corrected between gritted teeth.

"Alright. And you're ready to spend the next 50, 60 years on your own? With nobody to kiss or cuddle or bicker with? No one's hand to hold when things get shitty?"

That gave Fitz some pause. His mouth opened and closed hesitantly as he tried to work out a reply. A lifetime of loneliness– now, that was a prospect he'd never even dared to consider.

"Because sex is fine and all, but that's not nearly all there is to this, y'know?"

"I–" That was not something he'd expected to hear from Hunter, of all people.

"See, when she didn't make me wish I was dead, Bob–" Hunter paused to swallow another large gulp, his eyes roaming over the ground. When he spoke again, his voice sounded both sincere and a little despondent. "She was the best thing that ever happened to me. The most fun I've ever had with anyone. And I don't mean in the bedroom. Although that was certainly fun, too."

"Do you miss it?" Fitz asked timidly. "Being married?"

Hunter remained silent so long Fitz thought he'd chosen to ignore the question entirely. "Course not," Hunter said at long last, sounding miffed. "I'm not masochistic."

They drank in silence for a few moments, each lost in depressing thoughts of looming solitude, until Hunter squared his jaw and slammed his palm to the table decidedly, making Fitz jump.

"Look, man," Hunter started, his expression growing more serious than Fitz had even seen him. "I'm sorry for putting you on the spot like that. I really am. But I'm gonna make it up to you, alright?"

"You don't have to–"

"See, all you need is a little guidance–"

"–you really, really don't–"

"–from someone who's been around the block a few times–"

"Hunter, please–"

"It's decided, then!" Hunter grinned as he raised his nearly empty pint, gesturing for Fitz to do the same. "Leopold Fitz, I'm gonna help you get laid."


	2. Nerd Den

Fitz was perched as far back in the booth as he could managed, looking the very embodiment of disgruntlement. He was seated between Mack and Hunter, nursing an overpriced and tasteless beer, and kept wishing his seat would somehow open and swallow him whole. He hadn't stepped into that kind of bar– the kind you went to when you wanted to meet people which, as a rule, Fitz did not– in a number of years. On the few occasions he had found himself in such a place, it was only because he'd been baited or dared into it by colleagues.

Evidently, he was way too sober to be sitting there under the aggressively colored spotlights, even more so on a morose weeknight. The speakers were blasting some generic dance music but the dance floor was desperately empty, save for two seriously intoxicated women who'd strayed from the bachelorette party that had raged on earlier. The group had left the bar shortly after Fitz's arrival– a loss Hunter had been lamenting ever since.

"I'm telling you, bachelorette parties are the best case scenario," Hunter hammered on. "The holy grail of bar pick-ups. It's simple arithmetic, really– we're three dudes, so we want a group of at least five girls. That's the minimum ratio if you want to have a chance to see some action. And there were nine of them, man. Nine!"

"Mmhmm," Fitz acknowledged distractedly, longing for his comfortable bed and the stack of comics he'd found in his mailbox when he'd gone home to change.

He was wracking his brain for an excuse to leave early when he noticed a tall, statuesque blonde sitting alone at the bar. It struck him as a little odd. Women who looked like that– gorgeous, self-assured and terminally intimidating– were not supposed to be sitting alone in bars as seedy as this one on a Thursday night. More alarmingly, she was eyeing Fitz's party with unrestrained interest. When she caught his eye, she smirked, and he swiftly looked away.

Unfortunately, Fitz's rapidly blushing cheeks were swift to spike Hunter's interest. "What, did you see some– Oh. Shit."

Hunter's face falling and rearranging itself into a mask of worry was a curious sight to witness. With the exception of their earlier, unexpectedly grave conversation, Fitz had never seen him express anything but boredom or amusement– his default expression being a mixture of both.

"Do you know her?" Fitz asked, intrigued, and glanced back and forth between the two.

"Do I know her," Hunter repeated darkly.

Fitz turned to the blonde again and saw her amused look morph into a sneer, which was solely aimed at Hunter. She tilted her head ponderingly for a few seconds, before she threw her bag's strap over her shoulder and got to her feet.

"Fitz," Hunter deadpanned, his nostrils flaring, "prepare to meet the devil."

* * *

"They could at least pretend not to be talking about me," Fitz complained as he watched the former couple conferring agitatedly a few tables over. They were practically pointing his way every other sentence.

Mack chortled over his beer. "Subtlety isn't their strong suit, either of them."

Shortly after Bobbi had joined them, Hunter dragged her away and the two engaged in a heated argument. From where Fitz stood, it didn't look like an actual argument, but more of a courtship ritual. He'd certainly never seen Hunter so animated before. And it wasn't just him, either. Bobbi's eyes were gleaming with defiance and– something else. Fitz wondered if the two of them were even aware of the way they looked at each other.

"I guess arguing as foreplay works for some," he said to himself, fascinated.

"Yep," Mack confirmed. "Too bad they don't know where to stop."

The next moment, Bobbi abruptly jumped from her seat and marched in Fitz's direction, her eyes set on him so intently, he couldn't help but gulp and shrink into the booth.

"Fitz," she said brightly as she approached, towering over him like a 50 Ft. woman ready to attack. "Let's talk."

"Huh," he replied lamely, but she was already pulling him away to another table. When Fitz caught Hunter's eye, he was almost positive the other man was mouthing the word 'sorry' from where he stood.

"So," Bobbi, started, her tone switching back to business. "Hunter told me about your… situation."

"Oh, that's– that's great. Perfect." Fitz made a face and scratched the back of his neck self-consciously.

"You know, I read people for a living," she said, not a question, just a worrying affirmation.

Fitz's eyes widened. "Are you a cop or something?"

Bobbi's mouth stretched into a carnivorous smile. "Or something."

"Right." He wasn't surprised, exactly. Bobbi exuded authority, but also something not quite legit. It was intriguing, for sure, but Fitz would sooner proposition Shield Tech's terminally stern Vice Manager Melinda May than ask Bobbi about her resumé.

"So, tell me, Fitz." Bobbi rested her forearms on the table between them, leaning over slightly. Her gaze was laser sharp, urging Fitz to confess. "What are you looking for in a woman? What kind of girls do you like? Athletic? Curvy? Long hair? Short? Would you say you're more of a leg man or a breast man?"

It was a good thing Fitz had abandoned his beer back at his and Mack's table. If he'd been drinking then, he'd probably have sputtered all over her, and he had a feeling Bobbi wouldn't take kindly to that.

"I– I don't know. I've never thought about it like that."

Bobbi wouldn't be so easily deterred. "Why the sudden rush, anyway? What's the plan after you finally lose the V-card?"

"Are you asking me about… my intentions? Toward hypothetical women?"

"Should I be? Are your intentions questionable?" she asked, flashing him another predatory grin.

"Look, I– I didn't ask for any of this. I was fine on my own, for the most part. Before Hunter asked me about it, I'd never stopped and thought about how… lonely it gets. Sometimes. Not always, but– yeah, I guess it would be nice to have– someone. To be more than just me."

She fixed him with a cold hard stare for what felt like several solid minutes. Under that suffocating scrutiny, Fitz felt compelled to revise his initial impression. Bobbi Morse wasn't merely intimidating– she was downright terrifying.

"Okay," she said suddenly, her face relaxing into an affable smile. Her assessment of him was complete and for whatever reason, he'd been vetted. "I'll help."

Somehow, that didn't make Fitz feel any better. Not one bit.

* * *

"I'm perfectly capable of riding home," Fitz grunted, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I'm sure you are, Turbo," Mack said placatingly as he loaded Fitz's bike on the back of his truck. "But friends don't let friends who've had a few beers ride their bike home alone in the dead of night, alright?"

"It's 10:30PM," Fitz stated, his voice full of reproach as he buckled up, exuding indignation. Mack and Hunter chatted amiably during the entire ride, ignoring him while he sulked.

"Are you gonna tuck me in, too?" Fitz asked snidely as he unlocked his front door, the two of them still on his heels.

Neither bothered to answer but when Fitz clicked on the light, there was a collective gasp. Mack remained rooted where he stood while Hunter strolled to the pair of rocker gaming chairs– one well-worn and one barely touched, Fitz had been too embarrassed to tell the pushy seller he only needed one– and grazed the armrest reverently.

"Can I be your girlfriend?" he wondered aloud, starstruck, before he resumed gaping at his surroundings.

Every wall of Fitz's living room was covered with either rare action figures– in mint condition, boxes untouched, except for the Doctor Who ones which Fitz secretly enjoyed actually playing with– or the thousands of comic books he owned, neatly organized and displayed on custom-made bookcases. Inexplicably, he had also amassed an impressive collection of monkeys of all shapes and sizes.

Mack whistled appreciatively at a row of ancient Captain America back issues.

"Now I see why you didn't bother dating all these years." Hunter couldn't resist anymore. He flopped down on the chair, letting out with a deep sigh of happiness. "Maybe you were on to something, mate."

"It's just stuff," Fitz shrugged.

"Sweet, sweet stuff," Hunter amended, eyeing Fitz with newfound respect.

* * *

Jemma Simmons was in the zone. She should feel thoroughly exhausted after slaving away for 36 straight hours– during her so-called rest days, no less– but she didn't feel the least bit tired. Not when she was running on adrenaline and the brain rush of a major breakthrough. This could very well be a career-defining find, her most important work to date and, false modesty aside, her most brilliant one, too. She was vibrating with excitement– that paper was going to get her a lot of attention, she just knew it. The recognition she'd been yearning for was just around the corner.

She was humming to herself while doing some light editing when, suddenly, her laptop let out a long, distressed screech– something more animal than machine– before it froze completely and refused to restart. Or do much of anything at all.

"No!" she shrieked. "Don't do that!"

But it was already too late. The touch pad felt scorching hot and she tore her hands away with a yelp, just before she noticed the smoke escaping from the computer's vent.

"Please," she bargained uselessly. "I need those files! You can die as much as you want, as soon as I make a backup."

As the cloud grew thicker, Daisy's head appeared in the crack of the door. "What's going on?" Jemma's roommate inquired, her brow furrowed.

"I don't know," Jemma cried. "My laptop's gone rogue."

"Huh." Daisy came closer, cautiously surveying the fuming machine. "I hate to be the bearer of crap news, Jem, but I think that computer literally halted and caught fire."

"It can't have," Jemma insisted, gesturing frantically to dissipate the smog. "All my latest research is in there."

"Ouch." Daisy winced sympathetically, and opened the window wide before the room became unbreathable. "You really should have left me set up that automatic backup."

"Now's not the time for I told-you-sos." Jemma's glare was powerful enough to force an repentant half-smile out of Daisy. "Can't you dosomething? Aren't computers supposed to be your thing?"

"If you want a flawless chunk of code or need to hack into a decently protected system real quick, then yeah, sure, I'm your gal. But I'm afraid spontaneous combustion is a little outside my area of expertise and–"

She would have gone on, but her voice didn't carry over the screeching sound of the fire alarm.

Jemma stared helplessly at the smoking mess on her bed. "I'm so screwed."

* * *

When Jemma stepped into Shield Tech, holding the heat resistant bag at arm's length, an air of imminent defeat was etched across her face. Usually, she was a rather optimistic person, but the past three hours had her rethinking that mindset entirely. She stood by the entrance and looked around to the rows of flat screens, ergonomic keyboards and robotic vacuum cleaners for a few moments, wondering what the hell she was doing here, wasting her time when she should be writing her paper again from scratch– until a very tall guy with an easy smile and a trust-inspiring face walked straight to her.

"Hi, I'm Mack," he said, pointing to his name tag with his index finger. "How can I help you?"

"Hi. I've been told you offered repair services," Jemma said, her restlessness evident in her voice. "And, well, I'm in need of some serious repair."

A second, smaller guy whose name tag read Hunter, appeared next to Mack. "Repair, you say? You have been told right," he said joyfully, wrapping an arm around Jemma's shoulder. "We've got just what you're looking for." He used his grip on her frame to march her gently but firmly toward the far corner of the store of the store.

"Okay…" Jemma trotted about hesitantly.

"So, what is it that needs fixing?" Hunter asked conversationally. "Blender? Hair-strengthener? Or is it, you know–" he leaned in to stage-whisper "–avibrator?"

Jemma snorted, rolling her eyes. "My laptop set itself on fire and now months of hard work are at risk, so I would appreciate–"

"Oh, good. Perfect," Hunter answered, sounding pleased, as he maneuvered her to the right. "Fitz will have that under control in no time."

"You think so?" Hunter's confidence was only reassuring to an extent.

"There you go, love," he said, stopping in front of a bright blue cabin. "Fitz is your man. Don't worry bout a thing. You're in good hands, now. Capable hands. Right, mate?" Hunter said cheekily, and from the corner of her eye, she saw him give two thumb-ups before he and Mack quietly walked away.

"Hi", she said with an uneasy smile and a little wave. "Fitz, is it? Are you the computer whisperer?"

The man behind the booth's counter nodded hesitantly, staring at her with wide, bewildered eyes and an air of flustered embarrassment.

"Huh, hello. What seems to be the problem?" he asked in a thick Scottish accent, and Jemma couldn't help but notice his ears were turning pink.

"I was working on my laptop when it suddenly decided to self-immolate and I–" She huffed a sigh and decided to let her worry show. "You're my last hope. I could just replace the computer but I really need to access the hard drive. I've been working on this paper for weeks–"

"You didn't back it up?" His eyebrow shot straight to his hairline.

Jemma fixed him with an irate glare. "That's hardly the point."

Fitz reached for the bag she'd left on the counter and carefully extracted her laptop. He eyed it cautiously from every angle before he grabbed a screwdriver to open the frame.

He did have nice hands, Jemma noted to herself, with long, gracile fingers. Now he was solely focused on the machine in front of him, she took the opportunity to study him properly. He had a nice face, with pleasant features and striking blue eyes. The springy curls on top of his head looked soft– she had the oddest urge to reach over the counter and pull on one.

"What were you doing when it– did the thing?" he asked without looking at her.

"Just editing some notes."

"Was it resting on a plane surface?"

"On my bed."

He looked up for a fraction of second before his head dipped down again. "You shouldn't put a laptop on a soft surface. You'll block the vent, make it overheat."

"Oh." Now that she thought about it, it was entirely possible Daisy had told her something along those lines.

"Any error message?"

"No. It just made a sound and then went black and started smoking."

The frame came loose and Fitz set the screwdriver aside, scrunching his nose at the distinct smell of burnt plastic. "Huh. That's not good."

"I figured." She watched him work, fascinated by the way his hands moved.

"What is it about?" he asked as he rummaged around the computer's carcass.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your paper." He looked up to meet her eyes. "What is it about?"

"Oh. It's about an antiserum I created. It counteracts an entire class of rare infections. Very rare, in fact, but it could have other applications."

"Are you a doctor?"

"Yes. Well, not a medical doctor. I'm a biochemist."

"Impressive," he said, shooting her a smile. His eyes were even bluer than she'd previously thought.

"Fitz? Pardon me for being blunt but– you do know what you're doing, right?"

His head shot up and the chip he'd been holding fell right off his hand. "Sorry, what?"

"Are you any good?" she rephrased, wringing her hands together. She didn't mean to offend him, but if she had to start over from scratch, she wanted to be mentally prepared.

To her relief, Fitz merely chuckled. "Yep, pretty good. Funny how no one ever thinks to ask before handing me their stuff."

"It's just– I don't want to get my hopes up if you can't–"

Fitz reached over the counter and put his hand over hers in a reassuring gesture. "Look, I can't tell you if the computer's worth fixing at this point, but you will retrieve your data. I promise you," he said earnestly.

"Really?" For the first time since the incident, her constricting chest seemed to loosen up some.

"Really." His eyes fell on their joined hands and he stared, taken aback, as he proceeded to blush scarlet. She watched, fascinated, as his entire face and neck colored in a flash.

"Oh, thank you. I'm so relieved." She grinned widely before she abruptly sobered up, narrowing her eyes at him. "You better not let me down, Fitz," she said, but there was no force behind her words, only teasing.

He smirked, unfazed. "I'll do my best to power through."

Reaching inside her purse, Jemma fished for a business card. "Here." She scribbled under her name. "You've got my work direct line, home number, and my personal cell, too. You can't miss me. Please call me if you've got anything. Or if– well, call me."

"Okay," he said, blushing once more. "I'll call you."

* * *

"I'm not calling her," Fitz ground out for the upteenth time, glaring defiantly at Dr. Jemma Simmons' business card.

"Why the hell not?" Hunter shouted back from the gaming chair, his eyes never leaving the screen. He was engaged in a ruthless game of Street Fighter V with Mack, while Fitz fought his own inner battle on the couch. "She gave you her number. All her numbers. She wants you to call her."

Fitz's frown only deepened. "For updates on her laptop situation. Not so I could creep on her."

"Then don't," Mack cut in. "Ask her out for coffee or something. No creeping necessary."

"I can't do that!" Fitz screeched, horrified.

Did they really expect him to pick up the phone and go, 'Hi, I'm that guy from the electronics store, do you want to be my first girlfriend ever?' Hadn't his ego and dignity suffered enough over the past few days?

"Don't you like her?" Mack asked, fixing him with a no-nonsense stare.

"Of course I like her," Fitz huffed. How could he not like her? She was a drop dead gorgeous biochemist, for heaven's sake– basically Natalie Portman and Marie Curie rolled into one resolutely out-of-his-league woman.

"Then call her!" both men yelled in exasperation, perfectly in sync for once.

Under his breath, Fitz muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a stubborn 'you can't make me.'


	3. Pretty Woman

"Turn around," Bobbi ordered, arms crossed over her chest.

This had to be one of the most embarrassing moments of Fitz's life to date. He was standing awkwardly outside the men's changing room of the mall's department store in some oddly form-fitting suit that felt a bit tight around the hips, while a scary blonde amazon of a woman stared him up and down with a critical eye. In the background, some appropriately cringe-worthy 90's pop music soundtracked what was feeling more and more like an actual nightmare.

"Why?" Fitz frowned, looking down at the blue slacks and dress shirt Bobbi had demanded he try on.

"So I can see how your butt looks in these pants," she replied, as if addressing an unreasonable child.

"What!?" he shrieked, craning his neck to take a glimpse at said butt.

Bobbi rolled her eyes. "Just do it, alright? You can thank me later."

"I seriously doubt that," Fitz grumbled, grudgingly turning around. He felt himself blush scarlet when Bobbi gave out a slow, wolfish whistle, loud enough to draw attention from other shoppers.

" Nice," she declared with a satisfied smirk.

"Are you done?" Fitz asked, outraged, instinctively shielding his ass from her view with both his hands.

Bobbi merely chuckled. "You're definitely taking those. The light brown linen suit, too."

"Can we go now?" he asked again, sounding miffed, and hoped she couldn't hear the layer of flattered surprise behind his righteous indignation.

"I guess we could move on to the shoes," Bobbi conceded, shrugging. "We have another half-hour before your hairdressing appointment."

"My what?"

* * *

Fitz kept patting his head, despairing at the undeniable absence of curls he felt there. Bobbi and the hairdresser had conspired behind his back at length, never once addressing him directly, before they'd given each other a decisive nod. After that, Bobbi had sat regally in a vinyl armchair with a fashion magazine while Fitz's curls were mercilessly clipped off one by one. He gaped in horror at the mirror.

"Oh, get over it, already. I promise you, you look a thousand times better without the mop."

"Yeah, well, I beg to differ. I liked the mop. I want it back."

"Okay, let's make a deal, then." Bobbi said, rolling her eyes once more. "Give it a month, see how the new look works for you. If you feel like you had more success with the ladies before, you can grow the mop back. Let it cascade down your shoulders, if you like."

Fitz only grunted. That wasn't a bad idea, actually. He'd always wondered how his hair would look if he grew it out. Would it fall down his back or stand up straight on top on his head?

"Oh, and do me a favor," Bobbi added, her voice sugar-sweet.

"I would think I've done you enough favors already," Fitz muttered to himself, but judging by Bobbi's graceless snort, she'd had no trouble hearing him.

"Lose the razor," she said decisively. "You'd look good with some scruff. I mean, all men do, but you ," she insisted, giving his jaw an appreciative little nod, "would look good especially. Trust me."

* * *

It'd been over 48 hours since Jemma had given him her number and Fitz still hadn't called. In fact, not calling her had been his main Sunday activity. He'd stared at her card a lot, though. He'd even gone so far as to dial her cell number once, but he'd quickly hung up before the call went through. Or so he hoped. So much for not being a creep...

He was trying to distract himself from all that newfound stress by giving his miniature Daleks a fresh coat of paint when Hunter rang the bell unannounced.

"Hey, mate," he said as he stepped in, "I've got a little something for you."

And with that, Hunter handed him a large cardboard box overflowing with DVD cases, some home-burnt, some store-bought. One of the commercial boxes caught Fitz's eye– it was brightly colored and illustrated– and he instantly dropped the box on the floor. A few cases escaped, taunting him with their lurid cover art.

"What the hell?" Fitz inquired, wide-eyed and horrified.

"This, my friend, is a big box of porn," Hunter answered proudly.

Fitz stared back wordlessly, as if stuck in some sort of trance. Hunter took it as an invitation to elaborate.

"It's my personal collection, man. One of my prized possessions." He wiggled his eyebrows. "I figured you could pick up a few tips?"

Fitz unfroze just enough to energetically rub his face with the heels of both hands. "Okay, this is really, huh, generous of you, I guess, but– no offense, I don't want a 'big box of porn' in my apartment."

"But there's some good stuff in here, mate!" Hunter bent down to pick up a box from the floor. "Hey, have you seen Thor?"

"Yeah?" Fitz sounded cautious.

"Bet you haven't seen Thor's Meat Hammer, though." Hunter beamed as he brandished a very conspicuous DVD case– which, as it turned out, didn't even feature Thor. Or a hammer, as far as Fitz could see.

"Mmh, nope," Fitz replied, wincing. "Can't say I have."

"Starring Chris Cocksworth," Hunter read from the back of the box.

"That– makes sense, I guess." Fitz scratched the back of his neck. It felt horribly hot under his fingers.

"Agents of F.I.L.T.H.– that turned out darker than I thought it would," Hunter noted, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, this one's great! Captain Erotica: Nether Soldier."

"O-kay." Fitz shook himself up. "Look, thanks again, but I really don't need this stuff. I don't– I don't even do that much."

"You don't?" Hunter looked suddenly quite confused. "Why the hell not?"

Fitz felt himself flush scarlet up to his hairline. He wouldn't have thought this conversation could get any more embarrassing and yet, here they were. "I don't– it's just not a hobby of mine, okay?"

"Well, then, that's the only hobby you don't have," Hunter snorted as he glanced around the room, pointedly eyeing the comics, action figures and gaming gear.

Fitz let out a long suffering sigh and looked down, eager to escape Hunter's gently mocking gaze. Another box that had landed somewhere near his feet caught his eye.

"What's this?" he asked, picking it up. Compared to the rest of Hutner's collection, it looked almost– wholesome.

"Parks & Recreation, season 2. Huh. This probably shouldn't be in here. It's a good show, though. Real funny," Hunter shrugged. "Have you ever seen it?"

"No," Fitz replied grumpily as he read the blurb at the back of the box. It looked… surprisingly okay. "I'll take that one. You can keep the rest."

"No way. It's yours now."

"I told you I don't want it." Fitz picked up the cardboard box and shoved it in Hunter's arms.

"Okay, enough," Hunter opened the front door as he kept talking. Loudly. "Keep your big box of porn, Fitz! I'm not into that kind of stuff, it's gross!"

"Bloody hell, stop!" Fitz whisper-screamed, trying to pull him back inside, though Hunter didn't budge. "I have neighbors!"

"For the last time, man!" Hunter bellowed at the top of his lungs. "I don't want to watch Agents of F.I.L.T.H. with you. You're weirding me out!"

Fitz grabbed the box out of Hunter's hands before he slammed the door in his face.

* * *

Ever since that dreadful morning after Halo night at the store, Fitz had adamantly refused to frequent the break room again. Whatever message Mack had spread among Shield employees had been heard loud and clear, but people still looked at him strangely and most of them weren't nearly as discreet as they thought they were. He could feel, if not hear, the conversations dying when he approached, and resuming more lively than before when he retreated. And then there were the uncharacteristic and frankly bizarre predatory smiles Melinda May sometimes shot him when their eyes accidentally met.

The plus side was that he now had a golden excuse to become a regular at the food court, rather than to pack his own sandwich. Fitz was on his way out to lunch with Hunter and Mack, when he heard a pretty, English-accented voice calling him from behind in a busy mall hallway. Fitz identified the voice instantly and froze dead in his tracks.

"Fitz?" Jemma repeated, and he turned to face her, cursing the cosmos' poor timing. Not only was he grumpy and hungry, but there was a large grease stain on the front of his Bobbi-approved button-up shirt.

"Oh. Hi," Fitz mumbled, his eyes darting helplessly from the ground to her face, his arms hovering in front of him in a half-hearted attempt to hide the greasy smear.

She looked… radiant. Since the day she'd come to the store, he had convinced himself somehow that his impression of her had been greatly embellished by his brain- specifically, his lizard brain. That no real-life, everyday human being looked quite that attractive. And yet there she was, with her sparkling eyes and her mesmerizing smile and all those ridiculously sexy freckles peeking out from the low cut of her top. Fitz felt his mouth run dry and his palms become unpleasantly clammy.

Surely there had to be an alternate universe in which a blessed version of him could talk in complete sentences to impossibly attractive women before his brain misfired and shut down completely.

"Hi." Jemma grinned widely even as her eyes rounded with surprise. "You look different."

"Yeah, I, huh–" To his dismay, Fitz felt his face heat up. He pointed lamely to the top of his head. "Got a haircut." He would rather be struck by lightning right there in the middle of the mall than to get into the details of his mortifying shopping trip.

"It looks good on you," Jemma said simply with a bashful smile.

"Thanks," he muttered. By the feel of it, he was now crimson from head to toe.

"So," she started, her eyes lasering in on his. "It hasn't escaped my notice that you haven't called me." Her tone was both accusatory and playful, and he couldn't tell if she was taunting him or not.

"Yeah, I–" Fitz found he couldn't help but smile despite his undeniable embarrassment. "I will, as soon as I'm done with the repairs–"

"Perhaps you should call me whenever," she said, her smile tensing ever so slightly.

"Oh. I, huh–" Fitz rubbed the back of his head with his hand, cursing himself for being unable to utter more than one word at a time.

"I mean, if you want to," Jemma backtracked, narrowing her eyes.

"No, no, I mean– yes." Fitz let out a frustrated sigh. "I do. I will."

" Good ." When Jemma smiled, really smiled with her entire face, it was blinding. Fitz found himself rooted to the spot, decidedly dumbstruck. "I'm sorry but I gotta run," she continued. "I'm meeting my flatmate for lunch. She'll most likely be late, as per usual, but I'm genetically hardwired to be punctual anyway."

Fitz nodded, relieved and disappointed at the same time. "So I guess I'll– call you?"

"I'm counting on it," she said, and with one last flash of teeth, she was gone.

"That was painful to watch," Mack said the moment Jemma was out of earshot, while Hunter winced and shuddered exaggeratedly at his side. "Okay, change of plan. We're going to the bookstore."

"What? Why?" Fitz looked back at Hunter with an air of complete confusion.

Both men shared a long look before Hunter planted himself in front of Fitz, clasping both of his shoulders. "Because you, my friend, are in need of some urgent, intensive flirt-training."

Fitz looked dubious. "Why the bookstore? Why not Starbucks or Home Depot or–"

"Lots of women in bookstores," Hunter shrugged. "They're the ones keeping the publishing industry afloat. Come on," he insisted, and pulled on Fitz's arm as he started walking in the opposite direction.

"But I'm hungry," Fitz cried, following reluctantly.

* * *

"Look, I don't know about this," Fitz said uneasy, hovering by the store's entrance. "I kind of like Jemma." It felt weird to go after a random woman when he was already ridiculously smitten with another.

"Do you, really?" Hunter asked, rolling his eyes. "Look, I know you like her and that's great, mate. Really great. But you're not gonna get with anyone until you learn to play the field."

"I thought we'd declared a moratorium on sports metaphors," Fitz replied, with an annoyed pout. "And what if I don't want to play the field?"

"Do you want to crash and burn on your first date with Jemma? Because if that little scene earlier was any indication..."

Fitz frowned. Hunter had a point, he didn't have the slightest idea of how to act on a date without embarrassing himself. Not to mention, he hadn't tried– or even considered trying– to ask someone out in many more years that he was willing to admit.

"Look, I'll let you in on a little secret," Hunter said conspiratorially. "Here's how you talk to women: you ask questions. That's it. They're used to not being listened to and they're all sick to death of braggy and entitled male-speech. You want to stand out? Ask questions, and actually listen to the answers."

"Ask questions, listen to the answers," Fitz repeated, bobbing his head.

"They also like confidence in a guy," Hunter continued. "So try and be a jerk, but not too much of a jerk. The right balance is a little tricky to find."

Fitz's gaze flicked to Mack, who only shrugged, offering a sympathetic half-smile. "He's not wrong."

"Ask questions, listen, be a jerk, but only a small one. Okay. Got it," Fitz nodded, glaring through the bookstore window. "After that, you'll let me eat, yeah?"

"Can I help you?"

Fitz glanced at the clerk, whose name tag read Kara, and smiled awkwardly as he repeated Hunter's advice in his head like a mantra.

"I don't know, can you?"

The woman's commercial smile dimmed ever-so-slightly. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

"Is there something I should be looking for?" he asked, cringing internally at his hesitant tone. He didn't sound flirty, or seductive, or anything of the sort. Socially inept middle-schooler was more like it, really.

"Well, we have a lot of books here," she said with a nervous chuckle. "What do you usually like?"

"What do you like, Kara?" Fitz asked, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Mmh, well." She took an almost imperceptible step back, looking back at him with a kind of wary attention. "We have a rich section of self-help books–"

"Do you need help with yourself?" Hearing himself aloud, Fitz thought he sounded like the villain of a TV movie thriller. If the role were reversed, he would be discretely locating the nearest security guard by now.

Kara wasn't looking for help. She was staring back at him with wide, slightly distressed eyes. "Sometimes? I don't know..."

"Because you look like you could use a little help." How was he ever going to dig himself out of that hole? She was either going to laugh in his face or call the police, surely. There was no other plausible ending to that conversation.

"I'm not helpless!" she said suddenly, her voice raised and trembling. "Why would you say that to me?"

"I'm not– I didn't mean– I'm sorry." Fitz rubbed his face with both palms to block the sight of Kara's eyes rapidly filling with tears. "I'll, huh, go and check that section now," he said, feeling almost as miserable as she looked.

His face felt frozen and weird as his lips stretched to form a robotic fake-smile. Then he turned abruptly and walked in the opposite direction, as fast as his legs would carry him. Thankfully, the store was vast, and the self-help section happened to be far, far away from Kara and her hurt expression.

She hadn't lied, though, the self-help section was rather impressive, assuming one could be impressed by that kind of things. Fitz scowled at the few covers that caught his eyes. Did people really buy books called If You Want Closure in Your Relationship, Start with Your Legs or Know Your Pig, Playful Relationship Advice for Understanding Your Man? And more importantly, should he consider purchasing one? Were there books addressing his specific… issue?

He was pondering that very question when he noticed that in the next row, a pretty brunette with a mane of dark hair and almond-shaped eyes was strolling between the fully-stacked shelves, frowning and chuckling to herself as she read the titles on display.

Desperate for composure, Fitz grabbed the first book his hand landed on before he approached her, doing his best to ignore Hunter's head– and two thumbs up– peeking out from a shelf on his left.

"Self help, huh?" he said dumbly as he approached the perplexed shopper.

"I know, I know, the brunette replied with a self-deprecative pout. "Believe it or not, I'm here for a friend."

"Really?" Fitz chuckled awkwardly.

"Yep. My roommate needs all the help she can get. I mean, she's brilliant and cute and basically perfect, but she's not from around here and she doesn't have a lot of friends. Things have been tough for her lately and I hate to see her being lonely and upset."

"That's… really nice of you. Isn't it?" he added half-heartedly, for the sake of question-asking.

"Hey, it's not all selfless. I'm assuming a happy roommate is a slightly less nitpicky roommate." She flashed him a cheeky smile.

"Oh." Fitz was struggling to find follow-up questions but luckily, the woman didn't seem to need them.

"At the very least, she's in for a laugh. Oh, look, this one even has 'science' in the title. She'll love that. Or not." The brunette was holding up a copy of The New Science of Adult Attachment and How It Can Help You Find and Keep Love. "I'm Daisy, by the way."

"Fitz," he said, offering his hand for her to shake. Too late, he realized handshakes didn't exactly scream 'romance'.

"Interesting reading choice, Fitz," Daisy said with a smirk and an emphatic look.

He glanced at the cover of the book he'd been holding, and did a double take upon reading the title. The Rules: How to Capture the Heart of Mr. Right slipped right out of his hands and landed on the floor with a sound thud.

"That's… not for me either," he tried, flushing heavily, as his hand fumbled in the air.

Daisy snickered. "Sure, sure."

There was no coming back from that, he realized. Fitz picked the book up from the floor and stuffed it unceremoniously on the first shelf he could reach before he mumbled some unintelligible parting words. The next moment, he was jogging to the entrance, ignoring the curious glances of the other shoppers.

Mack had the decency not to comment on his performance, at first. Unfortunately, Hunter didn't possess as much tact.

"Okay, that was a start," Hunter said as he fell into step with him. "A wretched one for sure but–"

"You think?" Fitz asked, suddenly irate. "I almost made a woman cry, and another one's now under the impression I'm looking for Mr. Right."

"Come on, Turbo, it wasn't that bad," Mack offered in a soothing voice. "Everybody's gotta start somewhere and–"

"I'm starving," Fitz barked, already striding in the direction of the food court.


	4. Like A Band-Aid

"Just do it already," Mack yelled from the living room, his booming voice barely covering the yelps of his and Hunter's in-game avatars and carrying all the way to the bathroom, where Fitz had locked himself with his phone and Jemma Simmons' business card.

By way of reply, Fitz grunted and resumed staring at the card in his hand, his cell resting by the sink, unused. No matter how many times he rehearsed the conversation in his head, it felt as if he would never be ready. His stomach would never not drop at the thought and his throat would keep closing, leaving him gasping for air.

"If you don't call her," Hunter shouted, "I will. Set up a play date for you," he said, and laughed when he heard Fitz's reflexive groan.

Perhaps it was one of those things you had to do quickly and without thinking, like ripping off a band-aid or downing a shot of cheap liquor.

Fitz took a deep breath, grabbed his phone and tapped the 10 digits. He'd been staring at that card so hard and so long, the numbers were long committed to memory.

The line only rang once before it was picked up. "Hello?"

"Hey. Hi. Hello," he fumbled, wincing. "Is this Jemma?" Ridiculous. He was ridiculous.

"Yes, Fitz," she replied, her smile plainly audible. "Hi."

"Hi," he said once more, finding himself grinning in spite of his monumental nervousness. "How– how are you doing?"

"I'm good, thank you. And y–"

"So, I wanted to ask you–" he cut her off, anxious to say his piece. "I thought you and I could, huh–" Fitz let out a frustrated sigh, appalled by his own tongue-tiededness. "Dinner," He finally clipped out. "Somewhere… nice?"

"Yes. I'd like that," Jemma replied joyfully. "I happen to be free tonight..."

"I– huh, tonight?" Fitz froze, while his heart picked up in a mad, frantic rhythm. "I was thinking, maybe this weekend, but– tonight's good. Tonight's great." Tonight was disastrous. He felt like he might be sick. He was supposed to have days to prepare! Maybe weeks, if she needed to mull it over!

"Great," Jemma replied, oblivious to his torment. "Are you coming to pick me up?"

"Huh, see, that might be a bit of a problem because I, err, ride a bike?" He found himself wincing. He quite liked his bike. It was a cheap, efficient mode of locomotion that kept him in relatively good shape despite his cheetos and burger-based diet. But there was this particular, glaring downside he'd never considered before...

"Really?" Jemma sounded both intrigued and pleasantly surprised. "I didn't peg you for a motorcycle guy! It's been a while rode at the back of one but one of my high school boyfriends–"

"Yeah, no, I mean, I ride a bike– bicycle. I ride a bicycle." He covered the phone's speaker with his hand so he could bang his head against the wall.

"Oh." There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice. "Do you want me to pick you up?"

Fitz gave the wall another quiet smack. "I guess that would… Yes?"

* * *

"She said yes!" he said triumphantly as he joined Hunter and Mack in the living room, the transportation issue now eclipsed by the undeniable overall success of his mission.

Both men instantly erupted into cheers, abandoning their game to congratulate him. After all their cheering and coaching, it felt almost like a collective victory.

"Well done, mate," Hunter exclaimed, clapping Fitz's shoulder vigorously enough that it stung, while Mack handed him over a celebratory beer. "I know you had it in you!"

"She's picking me up in an hour," Fitz continued, grinning widely. Perhaps he should shave. Or change. He was wearing a pair of those snug pants Bobbi had insisted on and had never felt quite right…

Before he could voice those concerns, Fitz noticed that the room had gone suddenly very quiet.

"Here?" Mack asked, his brows shooting to his inexistent hairline. "She's coming here?"

"Yes?" Fitz stared back in confusion while Mack exchanged a loaded glance with Hunter.

"Look around, Turbo." Mack said cautiously. "What do you see?"

He scanned the living room, his happy place, with its overloading shelves and posters, figurines and rare comic issues he'd spent a lifetime to collect. It was a little crowded for sure, but it was clean and reasonably tidy.

"I don't know," he admitted. "A room filled with… stuff?"

"Right. Stuff. The same kind of stuff my 9-years-old nephew begs for at every Christmas and birthday," Hunter noted.

Mack shot him a glare. "Try to envision it through the eyes of a woman. A woman who's romantically interested in you. A grown man."

It had never occurred to Fitz to consider his apartment through the assessing eyes of a woman, having long reached the conclusion himself that he was not dating material. Perhaps the guys had a point, though. After all, they presumably knew what they were talking about, and he hadn't the slightest clue. Was she biased against framed monkey posters? Did she expect him to own a coffee table? What if she assumed he lived in some sort of decoration magazine spread, with frilly drapes and cushions everywhere?

Fitz blanched. "What should I– what can I do?"

"There's only so much that can be done in an hour," Hunter said. "I vote that we move everything that looks like you're living in pre-teen nerd heaven in the other room so she gets at least a chance to view you as a potential mate."

"I second that," Mack added solemnly.

* * *

When Jemma came to pick up, exactly an hour after they hung up the phone, Fitz's living room was entirely empty and resolutely stuff-less. Actually, it looked like the place was up to rent.

"Did you just move here?" she asked, confused.

"I'm– carpeting? I'm having new carpeting done. Tomorrow," he said, clearing his throat. "So, I was thinking– do you like Italian food?"

As they walked to her car, Fitz kept cursing himself. If this thing with Jemma miraculously worked out, he would have to recarpet his rented condo, not to mention, find a storage facility for all his stuff.

Dating was even more complicated that he had anticipated.

* * *

"No, but the sonic screwdriver does exist. Researchers created a device that uses ultrasound to lift and rotate objects in water. It doesn't blow things up though," Fitz added ruefully. "That would be easy enough to implement."

Jemma smiled and sipped her wine, noting the way his eyes crinkled and his hands flew wildly in the air when he spoke of something he was passionate about.

Striking conversation had been laborious at first, enough so that she'd worried their date would go down in flames before their entrees were cleared. But not only was she having a good time now, she found herself utterly charmed. Fitz was sweet and easy to talk to, but also bullheaded, surprisingly snarky, and impossibly smart. Not to mention, riling him up was as easy as it was entertaining.

She'd been astonished to discover his engineering background and unconventional curriculum, having never met another child prodigy in adulthood. His experience of being the lonely child genius among a crowd of young adults strikingly mirrored hers.

She was about to ask him about his leaving the United Kingdom when their conversation was interrupted with a slightly goofy, lyrical version of Happy Birthday in Italian. Beaming, Jemma craned her neck to get a better view of the Maitre'd serenading an older couple surrounded with family a few tables over, in a picture of retiree happiness.

When the song ended and the couple kissed, even Fitz couldn't help but clap. He looked at her with a sheepish expression, and the idea that had been nagging at the back of her mind converted to steely resolve.

"Oh, wow, it's your birthday, too?" Jemma exclaimed. Fitz's eyes narrowed as she waved for the Maitre'd to come nearer.

"Please don't–" Fitz said pleadingly, an air of panic etched on his face now he could tell what she was up to.

"Sir! It's Fitz's birthday, too. Do you think you could…?"

She watched, bubbling with glee, as the man launched into an encore performance of Tanti Auguri A Te by their table while Fitz's face flushed bright red with embarrassment. She grabbed his hand and held it for the entire song, while he did his best to glare at her.

"Thank you very much," Fitz muttered when the applause fizzled, his lower lip in a pronounced pout.

On impulse, Jemma leaned over the table to press a kiss to his stubbled cheek. Fitz became instantly still, as if the slightest movement might send her away. She lingered for only a second, wishing she didn't have to. He even smelled nice. Everything about him was nice. Better than nice.

When she sat up straight again, Fitz was looking at her with the softest eyes.

"Best birthday ever," he said with a one-shoulder shrug.

* * *

When Jemma had suggested they go back to her apartment for a drink, he'd enthusiastically agreed for two reasons: he was eager to prolong their date, which he'd enjoyed beyond all expectations, and ever since dessert, he'd started fretting about a hypothetical goodnight kiss– something he both dreaded and desperately longed for. He could certainly use the delay to brace himself and, if possible, ensure Jemma was amenable to the idea of kissing him.

Not once had it occurred to him that "a drink at her place" might be code for something else.

They encountered a first road block when it appeared that Jemma didn't have much in the way of beverages. Her fridge was empty save for a bottle of sriracha and a lone beer, which they decided to share. Sitting on the couch, practically hip to hip with her, Fitz was just beginning to grow nervous again when Jemma leaned over and pressed her lips to his, startling him. She pulled back then, a frown of uncertainty on her face, but he immediately recaptured her mouth with an enthusiasm that had her chuckling against him.

The second kiss had turned into a third, a fourth, a twentieth. Jemma began a meticulous exploration the column of his neck while his fingers started itching to feel more of her. Divining his thoughts, Jemma grabbed his hand from her waist to reposition it under her blouse, where her skin was impossibly soft and warm, and he tensed again.

"Everything okay?" Jemma asked against his neck, pausing.

"Mmhmm," was all he could reply.

Her fingernails grazed his scalp as she moved to lick the seam of his lips, sending jolts of electricity coursing through his body.

Only then did he realize that perhaps, Jemma was considering having sex. With him. Tonight.

Fitz could honestly say he'd never considered that a possibility. He loved kissing her. Kissing Jemma was bloody brilliant. He resented the fact that they would eventually have to stop kissing. He was certainly not opposed to the idea of things going further, and his body seemed quite enthusiastically in favor of that. In fact, he'd come perilously close to an extremely embarrassing incident a few times during what could only be described as a good, old-fashioned snogfest.

But he felt completely unprepared. The very idea of pursuing on the path they were on had him torn between blinding lust and unadulterated terror. He liked Jemma. He liked everything about her– not just her striking beauty, or her brain-addling kisses, or the intriguing curves underneath her shirt he could almost– almost– graze with the tips of his fingers. He liked talking to her, too. Hell, he could talk to her, amazingly enough. She didn't zone out when he talked about drones. She enjoyed mocking the bullshit science of popular movies just as much as he did. She'd explained her paper to him, the one he was still trying to recover, and it was brilliant. She was brilliant.

If they moved forward… the odds were not in his favor for things to go smoothly. There was too good of a chance that he would muck it all up, and then it would be over. She would move on to someone in her own league– someone experienced, who wouldn't internally lose it at the thought of touching her boobs.

But if they stopped now, who knew if she'd ever want to try again? Besides, Hunter would never let him hear the end of it.

He was busy debating if he should move his hand another inch higher under Jemma's blouse when, in the small part of his mind that was still aware of his surroundings, Fitz registered the sound of a key turning in the lock. Moments later, the front door opened and shut, followed by the sound of a set of keys being thrown on a mantle, shoes kicked out and, finally, footsteps.

"Hello, Roomie," a female voice called from the hallway. "Change of plans. Lincoln was called to the hospital again and– oh, hello."

For about 2 seconds, all Fitz could feel was relief. As much as he would have enjoyed making out with Jemma for a few additional hours, the choice was being made for him and he could stop agonizing over it. Then he looked up to awkwardly greet her smirking roommate, and immediately recognized the lady from the store– the snarky one. Daisy.

Fitz's stomach dropped heavily as his heartbeat elevated again, this time for a much less pleasant reason. He felt like he'd just been caught red-handed, although his exact faults remained rather unclear. And yet, he couldn't shake the notion that he'd somehow wronged them both.

He saw the exact moment Daisy managed to remember him, too. Her eyes widened slightly with a flash of recognition, although her face remained almost entirely impassive. She had one hell of a poker face.

Jemma cleared her throat, catching his attention again. "Fitz, this is my flatmate, Daisy, this is Fitz. My– date," she said as she pulled on her blouse.

"Hi. Hello. Mmh," Fitz fumbled. "I think I'd better go–" He couldn't be here. He needed time to think– about what had almost happened, about Jemma… And bloody hell, what would Daisy think of him now? Would she out him to Jemma as some kind of incompetent womanizer?

"No, no, you can stay," Jemma said in a rush, frowning deeply.

"Yeah, Fitz, stay! Let's chat," Daisy said, dropping on the couch next to him, as Jemma was still propped up against the armrest. She wiggled her eyebrows. "Read any good books lately?"

"Please ignore Daisy, she has no sense of boundaries," Jemma griped, throwing a glare in her roommate's direction.

"No, really, it's late and I, huh–" Fitz jumped on his feet, gracelessly joining his hands in front of his crotch in a would-be casual posture that was no doubt giving him away faster than any suspicious bump.

Daisy had the decency to cover her snort with a reasonably credible coughing fit.

"Oh, if you must," Jemma said regretfully, rising from the couch as well. "I'll drive you home, then."

"No, no, it's okay," he said with phony cheerfulness. "I'll walk. It's not that far–"

"Ugh, Fitz," Jemma moaned. "It's a half-hour walk at least–"

"More like 45 minutes, but I enjoy a good night stroll, okay?" he insisted, as she followed him down the hallway. He shrugged on his jacket and turned to face her, finding himself tongue-tied once more.

"Can I– I guess–" He sighed, exasperated with himself. "I'll– call you?"

"Yes," she said, and pressed a kiss at the corner of his mouth. "You will."


	5. 20 Dates

"I'm proud of you," Hunter said gravely, raising his beer to salute Fitz's mostly successful date.

Bobbi raised her bottle as well and leaned over to clink it against Fitz's, before taking a long sip, ostensibly neglecting to share a toast with Hunter. It was still early in the evening and the bar was empty but for the three of them and another small group of suit-wearing men sharing an afterwork drink.

Mack was noticeably absent, but his rare cheery mood at work as well as his conspicuously plaid-less outfit left Fitz wondering if maybe, a certain security agent had finally agreed to a date.

"It's a whole new level of complications, though," Hunter continued. "I mean, your first time is almost certainly going to be terrible–"

"You don't know that," Bobbi intervened, glancing at Fitz's rapidly blanching face.

"Hell yeah, I know that. Let's be realistic, here. I say, if you like that girl so much, your best option is to practice with someone else first."

"I don't want to practice with anyone else," Fitz said in a tone that suffered no argument. It felt so entirely wrong, there was no way he would even consider it.

Hunter frowned. "You sure?"

"Yes!" He huffed an exasperated sigh.

"Cause I could always set you up a profile on Tinder or something–"

"Oh no, not bloody Tinder again–"

"–and that little problem of yours could be dealt with by this time tomorrow!"

Bobbi's eyes had shot up at the mention of the app, but she made no comment, her lips closing into a tight line.

" No," Fitz said with a shiver of distaste. He had vehemently refused each time Hunter had suggested that option, and yet he kept bringing it up. It was a terrifying prospect, meeting someone explicitly for hooking-up purposes– someone with standards and expectations, who would no doubt have a good laugh recounting the episode to her friends...

"There's always the other solution– you know, the sane one," Bobbi piped in. "Just be honest. Tell her the truth."

"I agree with the hellbeast," Hunter said. "If you want it to happen with her, then there's no way around it. You have to tell her."

"Do I need to?" Fitz grimaced at the thought. He kept hoping they would find a magical way around that.

"It's not that big a deal," Hunter shrugged, even though he didn't sound much convinced. "Wanna practice?"

"What?"

"Let's just rehearse that conversation, alright? Pretend I'm her."

Fitz glanced at Bobbi, who merely shrugged.

"Come on," Hunter insisted. "Tell me."

Fitz mumbled something unintelligible before taking a large, vengeful sip of beer.

"What was that?" Hunter cupped his ear.

"I'm a virgin, okay?" he repeated loudly, sounding miffed, and immediately shrunk in his chair when he noticed some of the businessmen at the bar were looking in his direction, intrigued.

"Sweet. Now I know you don't... don't have syphilis!" Hunter said brightly, then whined after Bobbi elbowed him in the ribs.

"Why would she think I have syphilis?" Fitz frowned in astounded curiosity.

"I don't know, mate, that's not the point–"

"What Hunter meant to say," Bobbi cut in, daring Hunter to contradict her with a single raised eyebrow, "is that she'll understand. And it's okay to wait. It's okay to build up to it. But if you don't tell her where you stand, you can't expect her to guess. It can only lead to misunderstandings and confusion."

"I suppose you're right," Fitz reluctantly acknowledged.

Bobbi nodded. "When will you see her again?"

"Tomorrow. We're having dinner at that Thai place she likes."

"Great. Then you need to tell her over dinner," she said decisively. "Take your time to explain, but don't drag it out. You don't want a repeat of last time."

"I don't?" His cheeks heat up as he recalled the most pleasant moments of their previous date.

Bobbi and Hunter both grinned and exchanged a knowing look, before something seemed to pass between them. Their heads shot back to face Fitz with impressive synchronicity.

"What I meant," she said, biting her smile, "is that you don't want to mislead her, or have her misinterpret your behavior. That is the surest way to mess things up between you two."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right," he nodded, squaring his shoulders. "I'll tell her over dinner. Tomorrow. I'm gonna tell her tomorrow." Then he downed his beer in one long, fortifying gulp.

* * *

"I've got something for you," Fitz said unexpectedly as they waited for their satays and pushed a small black object to her side of the table.

"Oh, really?" Jemma replied, her smile growing rigid. Thankfully, he hadn't picked up on her nervosity yet. At least she'd picked the perfect place for their tricky second date– the restaurant was neither too snobbish or too casual, and quiet enough for the serious and potentially veryembarrassing conversation they were about to have. "A flash drive?" she asked, surprised, after examining the nondescript device.

Fitz sat a little straighter in his chair. "It's your paper," he clarified, glancing at her, and a blush crept up his cheeks as her expression changed. The words started tumbling out of his mouth, laced with a mix of pride and bashfulness. "I'm sorry it took so long. The hard drive was badly damaged and it took forever to figure out a way to fix it and have some spare parts shipped from Taiwan. Then I had to write a new data recovery program because nothing I had on hand was doing the trick, pretty ingenious actually–"

"Fitz!" she cut in before he could apologize further for going out of his way salvaging her hard work. "You're wonderful. Thank you." On impulse, she leaned over, craning her neck to reach his lips with hers.

When she sat back, he was blushing in that charming, almost juvenile way of his, and for a moment there, she was tempted to dismiss the plan entirely.

According to Daisy, Fitz was a pickup artist– or at least, he strived to be one. How or why she thought so remained unclear, as Daisy wasn't very forthcoming with intel. The one thing she'd adamantly denied, much to Jemma's relief, was that she and Fitz had never been a thing. Still, she insisted that Jemma needed to protect herself, or at the very least, test him a little before things went any further.

And thus, the plan was born. Their next conversation would make or break their relationship.

"Fitz," she started, but he quickly raised a hand, demanding to speak first.

"I've been thinking about it– about us," he said ominously, fixing his gaze on his own hand and the patterns it drew on his misty glass. "If this is going anywhere," he said earnestly, "and I really hope this is going somewhere... Then there are things that you should– well, one thing really, but– I'm sorry, I rehearsed this conversation in my head a thousand times, I swear, but it's so–" his hand flew up, drawing vague figure in the air between them as his face took on a dejected expression. He signed, resigned, and shook his head almost violently. "Forget it. I'll tell you later. It's not that important."

"Alright," she said, her forehead creased with uncertainty. "Actually there's something I wanted to tell you, too. I don't want to send you running for the hills or anything but I think maybe we've been moving too fast and… considering my dating history and everything–" she rolled her eyes to the ceiling, because by 'everything', she definitely meant Daisy. "If we're gonna do this again, then I think we should hold off on the physical part for a while."

There. She'd said it. Sex was explicitly off the menu. There would be no dessert– unless, of course, he wanted to try their superb coconut cake.

She watched him carefully, expecting to see a flash of disappointment or annoyance on his face, but much to her surprise, Fitz's face lit up and a delighted smile replaced his previously frustrated expression.

"That is a fantastic idea," he said, without a trace of irony. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Really? You're okay with–" Jemma narrowed her eyes. Was it possible he hadn't understood what she was suggesting? She thought she'd been reasonably clear, but it wouldn't be the first time a man reinterpreted her words according to his wishes. "No sex?" she asked crudely, anxious to dissipate any possible misunderstanding.

"No sex," he repeated happily. "From personal experience, I've reached the conclusion that sex tends to really complicate things," he said, his tone a little donnish, "and right now, I think we should probably focus on getting to know each other, you know?"

Jemma tilted her head to the side, eyeing him curiously. "I have to say, I'm surprised. I never thought you'd be so easy to convince."

"I'm completely convinced already," he said with an enthusiastic nod. "I think it's great. Perfect."

Jemma had come prepared to face several types of reaction, but never in a thousand years would she have expected instant and complete agreement. It was troubling. Was it calculated? Some sort of weird reverse psychology meant to have her begging for it by the end of the evening? "Most guys I've dated would be insisting by the third date how much they needed to 'physically express their feelings'," she air quoted.

"By the third date, huh? You know what? Let's make it the tenth," he said resolutely. "Ten dates."

"Oh, really," she said dubiously, wishing she could shake the sense of suspicion that was nagging at her. "Why not fifteen?"

"Fifteen is easy," he bragged. "Twenty. Yes. Twenty dates without sex."

"Twenty dates," she repeated, incredulous.

Fitz, for one, looked positively gleeful. "This is genius," he said, raising his glass to salute her brilliant idea.

This situation was entirely unprecedented. Never in her adult life had she even considered dating a man for over a month without– well, physically expressing her feelings. And more importantly, she wasn't sure she wanted to. She'd suggested this to test Fitz's interest in her, not to deprive herself. Not to mention, she was very interested to find out if the way Fitz kissed –enthusiastically, eagerly and tirelessly– extended to other activities as well.

Meanwhile, his expression was sobering, too. "I just have one question," he said with a slight frown. "Does it mean– are we still allowed to– make out?"

Jemma couldn't help but grin. "We most certainly are."

Later, after Jemma parked her car in front of his apartment complex, they almost crushed the to-go serving of coconut cake he'd insisted on taking home, as they made out like a pair of horny teenagers trying to make the most of the last minutes before curfew.

"18 dates to go," Jemma said, breathless, as she unhooked her arms from around his neck.

"I don't think the ones before we made the deal should count," Fitz countered, eyes closed, as he tried to regain control of his breathing.

"They count," she replied unflinchingly, cursing Daisy and herself for an idea she was already regretting. "They definitely count."

* * *

After being granted that unexpected and frankly miraculous respite, Fitz decided it was time for him to do some research.

With a sense of diffuse trepidation, Fitz turned down the picture of his mother standing on his dresser, before he went to extract Hunter's lovingly curated collection from the bottom of his closet, where it had been buried behind several boxes of comics. He randomly fished out a few boxes, repressing a shudder. Even with her framed photograph facing away, it still felt like his mum would know somehow.

After turning down the light, he settled in bed, feeling inexplicably nervous, he took a few deep breaths before he finally dared to press "play".

Fitz watched the first movie for a total of three minutes before he relented and pressed the eject button. It took him that long to pinpoint exactly what was bothering him– the woman on the screen reminded him sharply of the meanest teacher he'd ever had, with her overdone, puffy hairdo and sour expression, while the man's impressive hairiness and jiggling gut proved thoroughly distracting.

The next one featuring two reasonably attractive ladies in superheroine capes and the clueless civilian they'd just rescued, but he had to relent again when it looked like they were about to take those very long, sharp and angular-looking fingernails very close to some sensitive parts of their male companion's anatomy.

After that, he tried a few more, but every last one of them featured one or several fatal flaws that prevented him from enjoying the show– weird, over-enthusiastic screaming, bizarre camera angles that prominently featured parts of the male performer he wasn't that interested in, unfortunately placed acne… It soon became obvious this was not going to work for him.

While his body did perk up as he skimmed through some of the scenes, his mind was increasingly affronted by the laughable scenarios and affected baby voices. Besides, it all seemed rather counter-productive. The movies freaked him out a lot more than they... intrigued him. He hadn't been lying when he'd told Hunter he wasn't very interested in that particular hobby.

Besides, no amount of grating, high-pitched squeals or acrobatic mating could come close to simply reminiscing the mind-numbing lust he'd felt while kissing Jemma. While snogging Jemma senseless. If he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could still feel the trail of languid, open-mouthed kisses she'd peppered from his ear down to his collarbone, hitting a number of sweet spots he hadn't known he had.

He wasn't going to do that while he thought of Jemma, though. It would be wrong– disrespectful.

At long last, he picked out the one DVD box he hadn't thought to watch. The peppy, cheerful theme song was engaging enough, and by the end of the first episode, his curiosity was piqued. By the time Leslie Knope valiantly defied a rogue Venezuelan delegation, Fitz was thoroughly enamoured with the show and the people of Pawnee.

Before he knew it, he'd marathoned straight through the entire season. It was tempting to start on the third one right away, but he wondered if Jemma would like to watch the rest with him.

* * *

The next month was a blur of outings and happiness and Jemma.

On their sixth date, they went to the zoo on a sunny Saturday afternoon and spent half of the afternoon sitting on a bench opposing the chimpanzees' vast enclosure, watching them climb and play and grin and fight. After a while, an older chimp with a greying beard and a cantankerous look took offense to them overstaying their welcome– or perhaps to them making out unrestrainedly in its line of vision. He hated to upset the monkeys, but Jemma tasted of mango ice cream and the sun shone in her hair and she smiled like she wouldn't want to be anywhere but here with him, and Fitz was only a man, after all.

Their ninth date was a dinner-and-a-movie affair. As they waited in line to get their tickets for Captain America, Fitz tried his very best not to blush outrageously when he thought of the offensive parody that was still lying in a corner of his apartment. When the lights went off, Jemma linked their hands together and let them rest on her bare knee, not letting go of him until the credits rolled. After the movie, they engaged in a heated Team Cap vs Team Iron Man debate that dragged on and on until their waiter had to inform them the restaurant was about to close its doors. Fitz was quite proud of himself, really– he'd made some good points for someone who'd spent the entire movie wondering if her legs were as soft higher up under her skirt.

On many dates, they stayed in. Fitz was delighted that Jemma enjoyed Parks & Recreation as much as he did, and together they marathoned through three entire seasons tucked under a plaid comforter on her couch, which was quickly becoming Fitz's favorite place in the world. Facetiming his mother with Jemma in his arms had been a complete accident– he had just picked up without thinking it through, distracted as he was by Pawnee's city council election– but a few minutes later Jemma and his mom were grinning at each other and laughing at his expense and his stomach was making all kinds of weird somersaults.

It hit him then. This, what they were doing– it wasn't casual dating. It wasn't casual anything.

They spent every other evening together each week and when they weren't together, they were constantly texting. She was the first and last thing that crossed his mind every day, and whenever he read or saw or heard something interesting, his first thought was invariably 'I have to tell Jemma' . When he wasn't with her, he kept wishing he was– talking with her was easy. Even when he fumbled for words, she knew exactly what he meant to say. And the way her mind worked– that was an endless source of amazement.

Bobbi had snickered when he'd brought it up. "You're in love, you dork. It really is that simple."

"I can't be!" he replied, aghast. "I haven't told her yet."

The closer they got to that dreaded twentieth date, the more terrified he became. He was perfectly content with the way things were going, for the time being. Talking, laughing, eating fine foods and kissing for hours– surely it didn't get any better than that. His body certainly seemed to crave new developments, but with each passing day, his apprehension eclipsed his longing a little more. He knew it was entirely his fault– he'd let go of every chance to tell her, and now it was too late. He simply couldn't. He had missed his window of opportunity, once again.

Jemma was a very sensual woman, and she'd started hinting to how she wished things would move a little faster by the third week. She was actually looking forward to sleeping with him. When the day came, soon– much too soon– she would be crushed with disappointment, no doubt, and there was nothing he could do about it. She would have to break up with him then. He couldn't blame her, he completely understood. No grown woman wanted to date a fumbling, panicked virgin who didn't know the first thing about pleasing a woman.

Somewhere along the way, in Fitz's mind, the long awaited 20th date became the final one. He was counting down to the day he would lose her, and damn, was that going to hurt like hell.

On the morning of their scheduled last date, Fitz woke up so twisted out of shape he couldn't eat it a thing, and his morning tea tasted like soggy ashes. He couldn't rid his mouth of the taste and the feeling remained– it was like a hangover that became worse instead of better as the hours went by. He toyed with his phone all afternoon, typing and deleting, and generally not accomplishing a thing, until he couldn't postpone it anymore. He texted her a laconic, _I'm sorry. I can't make it tonight_ and as soon as the message went through, he turned off his phone.

Apparently, he was a virgin and a bloody coward.


	6. Not A Virgin

I'm sorry. I can't make it tonight.

By the time she was supposed to meet Fitz for their date– their 20th date, the date– Jemma had read and re-read Fitz's text dozens of times, trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind the cold and impersonal words. She had tried his number at least twice as many times, but the calls went straight to voicemail.

He had never cancelled on her before, and he always picked up when she called. It made no sense– how could he be ghosting her today, of all days? They were supposed to take their relationship to the next level, after the longest and most ridiculously unnecessary self-imposed dry-spell in the history of mankind. She'd spent ages picking an outfit– and lingerie, damn it! It really begged the question– why? She knew he was nervous about it– his stubborn refusal to forget about the deal entirely was telling enough– but after 19 dates and 19 make-out sessions, she was reasonably confident that Dr. Leopold Fitz was interested in her that way.

With a muffled groan of frustration, she picked up her phone and dialed his number one last time, pushing the 'Cancel' button as soon as his voicemail picked up.

Well, then. He left her no choice. And if he thought she would give up so easily, he didn't know her at all.

* * *

"Hi," Jemma said, forcing a bright smile on her face the moment Fitz cracked the door open.

"Jemma. I– I wasn't expecting you." Fitz took a step back, allowing her to push the door open wider, while he scratched at the side of his face and looked utterly panicked. "I'm sorry– like I said, I'm just not feeling well tonight."

"Well, then, I'm happy to take care of you," she said, smiling her Stepford Wife smile, and stepped inside before he had a chance to dismiss her. "Did you know I've never actually been inside your apartment? You've come to mine at least a dozen times–"

"Well, I like you apartment," Fitz shrugged uneasily.

She looked around, smiling at the dozens of little monkeys she could spot hiding in every nook and recess. "I like yours, too," she said, trailing her fingers along a row of hardcover graphic novels, artfully arranged by color and size. The hardwood floor squeaked under her heels as she walked around the room.

Suddenly, she frowned. "What happened to carpeting your floors?"

"Huh, the plan fell through," he said with a grimace. "One of the workers fell ill and– I should probably reschedule."

"Mmhmm," she answered, dubious, and continued her shameless snooping around the living room, coming to a halt in front of the cardboard box lying against the wall in the hallway that led to the bedroom. "What's this?"

Fitz followed her gaze and became ostensibly paler. Before he had a chance to answer, Jemma bent down, plunging a hand in the box to retrieve a few DVD boxes.

"No– no that's not–" Fitz tried to grab them from her hands, but she stepped back and out of reach. They began a weird dance, one step forward, two steps back, him chasing her across his apartment while she waltzed inches from his grasp.

"Iron Wang," Jemma read in a theatrical voice, her eyebrows shooting to her hairline, and sent the box flying through the room. "The Incredible Cunt. Nice," she said acidly. The box hit the floor with a bang. "Tent-Man." Another bang. "Wow, you're really into superheroes, aren't you?"

"Jemma, I–" he said, his voice pleading and pathetic. "They're not even mine– I swear–"

Jemma snorted. "Right. You're just storing them for a friend."

"Something like that, yeah." Fitz squeezed his eyes shut, looking pained.

She shook her head, staring at the floor for a moment before she wrestled her eyes back up. "Look, I don't even–" she sighed, rolling her eyes. "So, you like porn. Lots of people like porn. What I don't understand–" She paused and combed her fingers through her hair in a nervous gesture, remembering too late she'd spent ages wrestling with Daisy's curling iron, dolling herself up for him. "We went on 19 dates, Fitz. 19. We made out for hours and hours and you barely even tried to feel me up. So, what is this supposed to mean? Are you more interested in movies than the real thing? Are you addicted to hardcore pornography?"

"No," he said, and had the gall to sound offended. "Jemma– it's not what it looks like at all."

"So, I'm just not pretty enough for you?" she asked, her breath leaving her at the realisation. It was her, then. She just wasn't doing it for him. "Are my breasts too small? Do I look too vanilla or–"

"Stop," Fitz huffed. "Please. It's nothing like that. You're bloody perfect, Jemma."

"Oh, so you respect me too much to see me as a sexual being, is that it?" She sounded raucous to her own ears– shrill and wounded.

"Don't be ridiculous," he replied, his voice raising to match hers. "Of course I see you as a sexual being! How could I not?"

"Then why?" she asked, and to her horror, she could feel tears streaming down her face. "Why don't you want me ? Why do you get yourself all worked up making out with me and then go home to spend some quality time with– The Fantastic Foursome," she spat, and gave the box a good, satisfying kick.

"You don't understand–"

"Then explain it to me," she exploded.

"I can't," Fitz shouted at the top of his lungs. "I can't. I tried, but I can't," he repeated, softer this times, and when their eyes met, his were full of tears too.

He was the nicest, most interesting and appealing guy she'd met in ages– maybe ever, and here they were, both tearful, frustrated and horrified. Even now, she could still feel the draw he had on her– that same sense of inexplicable, inevitable attraction she'd felt the first time she'd met him at the store. Only this time it twisted her insides and made her want to roll into a ball and cry.

This wasn't her. Dr. Jemma Simmons didn't break down over some guy not liking her enough. She was made of sturdier stuff than this. Or at least, she liked to think so.

"Alright," she murmured. "Okay. I think we're done here," she said, daring him to contradict her– and desperately wishing he would.

Instead, the silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. She counted to 20 in her head– it was their number after all, their lucky number, she thought bitterly– and only then did she find the courage to let go. It was greatly satisfying to disturb all that deafening quiet by slamming the the door behind her.

* * *

Fitz only unfroze when he heard Jemma's engine starting– the next moment, he was jumping into his sneakers and running outside and straight to the bike shed. His hands were shaky and stiff as he fumbled with the chain before he finally managed to open the lock, and then he was launching himself straight into the evening traffic.

He barely registered the honking and the screamed curses as he slalomed between the rows of cars, his mind and body working together for once, entirely focused on his sole objective– finding Jemma to fix this. Twice, he was almost knocked over by a car attempting to switch lanes, but still, he kept going as fast as his legs would allow.

The cosmos was with him, for once, and the traffic appeared to be stalled. It had to be a crash– if his mother ever found out he had once thought of someone else's car accident as a stroke of luck, she would probably shout his ears off.

Soon, he caught a glimpse of Jemma's Prius, stuck in the unmoving middle lane, and in a few moments, he had caught up with her. Dropping his bike, he knocked on her car window with metronomic regularity until she finally gave in. With an overblown sigh, she climbed out of her car and stood opposite him, her arms crossed over her chest.

"It's not what you think," he said, adamant. He was breathless from his mad bike dash, but he couldn't let that stop him now. "I swear, Jemma, I'm not– like that. Hunter gave me all that stuff because he thought I needed it. Because–"

"I'm listening," Jemma said impatiently as Fitz gulped, searching for his words.

"You're… you're perfect. You're everything I've ever wanted," he said, hoping she could discern the truth under all the panic and nervousness. "It's me– I don't think I can– I don't think I'm good enough. For you."

"You don't get to decide that all on your own," she huffed. "And that's not an explanation, Fitz."

"But it's the truth," he said beggingly.

"You know, I could tell something was wrong." Jemma began pacing. "I tried to ignore it– I wanted to ignore it. At first I thought it was just, you know– sexual frustration. But then you ignored all the openings I gave you and I realized, it had to be more than that. Worse." Her eyes kept darting from him to the asphalt. "I've had my theories, although I must say, 'secret porn fiend' didn't once cross my mind. I thought you were married and struggling to honor your vows, or a widower, maybe. Or an ordained priest of some sort. Or a spy whose ethics wouldn't allow you to seduce me under an assumed identity." She laughed sadly, and it sounded almost like a sob. "Or, you know. Waiting for marriage."

She must have heard Fitz's sharp intake of breath, then, because she stopped talking altogether and frowned, as her inquisitive eyes searched his face for more untold truths.

"You– are you?" she asked, incredulous.

"Waiting for marriage? No," he replied, shaking his head, his own gaze cast down. "But I– Oh, God. Yes. I'm a virgin." He squeezed his eyes shut time, then blinked several times. "There, I said it. My big shameful secret."

It felt so odd, as if every frenzied particule of his being had suddenly screeched to a halt. He wasn't sure if he'd just liberated himself from a gigantic boulder weighing over his head, or if he had just been crushed by it.

Jemma was very quiet. Her eyes had gone wide as saucers, but at least she wasn't laughing in his face.

"It's not by choice, mind you," he said with a self-deprecating smirk. "Although I can't say I've really gone out of my way to make it happen."

At that, Jemma snorted despite herself, before shaking her head and gesturing for him to continue.

"But I'm– I'm terrified," he said in a forlorn chuckle. "I'm terrified of mucking it up. I'm terrified of being crap at it…" He paused to wipe his wet cheeks and clear his throat, forcing himself to make eye-contact, no matter how devastating it was to watch her expression bounce from sadness to confusion and back. "Over the years, I convinced myself it wasn't something I was interested in. Of course, these past weeks with you–" He was blushing now, blushing and crying and vomiting words all over her like the complete human disaster he was. "I'm just so scared of disappointing you."

"I can't believe you," she said, her voice tight like a rope, and took a step forward to punch his shoulder.

"Ow." He rubbed at the soft ache in an absent-minded gesture. "You're upset," he stated blandly, his stomach twisting.

"Of course I'm upset!" she cried. "You let me believe you had some deep, dark secret you had to keep from me! Something awful enough to end this. To end us. But this– this isn't even bad. It just– is." She shook her head as if to clear it, and when she talked again, her voice was small and soft and fragile. "How could you possibly believe it would make me love you any less?"

Fitz went very still. It felt like being punched in the gut and having a stroke and falling into a pit all at once, only the shock immediately gave way to a pure, overwhelming joy. All his insides were swelling with it, so much he would certainly burst any minute.

"I love you," he said, suddenly breathless. "I didn't plan to– I didn't think it would ever happen to me. And now I– I don't know what to do with it," he confessed, smiling shyly. "I'm so scared to lose you."

"I just want to be with you," she said, blinking tears away while her lips stretched into a wide, heartfelt smile." We'll figure out the rest as we go, okay?"

He nodded– that was all he could do. He felt like he had lost the ability to form words, and even if he hadn't, surely his voice couldn't carry through the thick, enveloping cloud of relief that had settled around him.

"No more secrets," she said, her voice muffled.

Jemma knew, and she loved him.

Jemma was in his arms and she was kissing his forehead, his cheek, his nose, the length of his jaw, like she had almost lost him and she could barely stand it.

"You two need to get a room," someone shouted from their car's half-open window. "Whether you fuck in it or not isn't anybody's business, so I suggest you stop clogging traffic and finish this conversation somewhere else, alright?"

"He has a point," Fitz murmured against her mouth, lighter and happier than he could remember ever feeling. "We should probably move."

"Maybe," she shrugged, and when their eyes met, hers were dancing. "But together, yeah?"

* * *

When they went home– to her place, because they were a couple there, whereas in his apartment, he felt like a hermit and she wasn't quite sure where she fit in it yet– nothing much happened. They didn't jump into bed. They didn't argue. They didn't make anymore heartfelt declarations of love. But the wheels inside Jemma's brain kept turning.

All her adult life, people had told Jemma she had no tact and she didn't get basic human psychology. They were all wrong. Well, perhaps she had little tact, but she did understand people– or at least, she understood Fitz. Once she had the missing data, everything started making sense, like pieces solving a puzzle. It was clear to her that sex was a tiny part of a larger problem– this warped view he had of himself, his anxiety, his struggle with self-worth. She didn't know how to get to the root of that, or how to help him move past it, and it was probably not up to her, anyway. But she could bide her time. She wanted him to trust that she loved him, and that he had nothing to be scared of.

They kept dating, finding a whole new routine: movies on Mondays, takeout on Thursdays, supper on Saturdays– often as a double date with Daisy and Lincoln. When he stayed the night, they slept entwined and they marathoned a show together on Sunday morning.

Tip-toeing around the issue wasn't easy. Ignoring her own needs and his obvious interest while they were making out wasn't either, but Jemma felt the issue was entirely his to breach, and she was afraid of spooking him once more.

They were having dinner in the same Italian restaurant he'd taken her on their first date, weeks after they'd started over, when he cleared his throat and grabbed her hand under the table, taking her off guard.

"I've been thinking about us. About… it."

"You have?" she asked tentatively, searching his face. He looked a little nervous, but also hopeful. Impatient, even.

"Yeah. I have. Pretty much constantly, I must say." He squeezed her hand, staring back intently. "I've been waiting for– something, I'm not sure what. An epiphany. A vibe. A sign from the bloody cosmos. And perhaps that's the problem. Overthinking it."

"It certainly doesn't help," she concurred, biting her lip. He wasn't the only one obsessing about the sex they weren't having. She worried he'd set impossible standards in his head, both for her and for himself, and that whatever he was expecting, the reality could only disappoint him.

"Maybe we should stop thinking altogether–"

"–and just do," she smiled. "Of course."

Fitz licked his lips, watching her with evident trepidation. "So, what do you say, Dr. Simmons?"

"I say…" She took a sip of wine, concentrating on the taste rather than the butterflies going nuts in her belly. "Let's get a doggy bag and finish this conversation in a more intimate setting."

Fitz's smile was a little tremulous when he nodded, his eyes piercing through her, and purposefully downed his own glass before he gestured for the waitress.

* * *

They had kissed hundred of times, perhaps thousands, but never like this. Never so intently. As Fitz backed her up inside the apartment, his hands gripping her hips, she pushed his jacket off his shoulders and blindly undid his tie, grazing the shell of his ear with her teeth just to hear him gasp.

When they reached his bedroom, he seemed at a loss for a moment, before he blinked away the flicker of vulnerability she'd glimpsed in his eyes. His grip on her waist tightening, he pushed her up against the wall, stepping between her legs and kissing her as if there were no tomorrow.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" she asked, breathless, forcing her hands to stay still around his shoulders.

"I am." Fitz nodded, his eyes brimming with a tangle of contradictory emotions. "I mean, if you want–"

"I do want," Jemma said so fast he chuckled, touching his forehead to hers.

"I'm not sure I–"

"I know."

"I'm really–"

"I know, Fitz." Her hand settle on his jaw, her fingers grazing the bristle as she caught his mouth in a sweet, slow kiss. "No thinking, remember?"

"It's just– I want you so much," he breathed, sending a thrill of heat and delight coursing down her body.

"And I want you," she said, closing the distance to nip softly at his lower lip, sucking in his sigh.

He hummed against her lips, initiating another urgent, scorching kiss, while his hands patted awkwardly down her back.

"It opens on the side," she said, before she slid down the zipper of her dress and kicked off her heels. Moments later, she was standing in her underwear, and Fitz had gone very still, his eyes bugging out slightly.

"I'll choose to take that as a compliment," she grinned, and grabbed his hands, setting them down on each side of her waist.

Fitz cleared his throat, detaching his eyes from her chest with evident difficulty. "Just to clarify," he said, his voice breaking, "you want to have sex with me."

"If that's alright with you, yeah," she said coyly, barely resisting the urge to grab his hands again and reposition them directly on her breasts. She was hellbent on following his lead and not rushing him in any way, but if he intended to maintain this leisurely pace, she might not survive the night.

"May I–"

"Please," she gasped, looking down to watch his long finger trail up her torso with excruciating slowness. When he finally cupped her breasts, the heat of his palm sent a shiver down her spine. He was looking at her intently, with an air of deep concentration she'd seen many times on him in entirely different contexts.

"Is this okay?"

"Mmhmm," she breathed.

Fitz frowned, tilting his head to the side. "Tell me what you want."

"Take it off," she demanded. "Please."

In his defense, he tried to wrestle the clasp open for a full minute, hissing and huffing in frustration, before he forfeited and looked up piteously.

"I think it's broken," he said defeated.

"Ugh, Fitz," she said, rolling her eyes as she easily undid the latch. "This from a man who assembles electronic devices smaller than my pinkie's nailfor fun."

But Fitz wasn't paying attention to what she was saying anymore. He appeared to be… transfixed. It was quite pleasing, really, to be able to overwhelm his brilliant brain just by standing there and showing a little skin.

"You really like breasts, don't you?" Jemma grinned and arched her back a little more to enhance his view.

He made an indistinct sound of approbation as he cupped her in his hands, a look of surprised wonder on his face.

"What is it?" she asked, curious.

"Nothing, it's just, it doesn't feel like I thought it would at all."

"What did you think it felt like?"

"I don't know, I guess like– like bags of sand?"

With great difficulty, she stifled her bubbling laughter. "I hope you're not too disappointed."

Fitz hummed in response, ghosting caresses over her skin with the tip of his fingers, maddeningly soft.

"I'm not gonna break, you know," she said pointedly, torn between her commitment to his pace and her needy restlessness.

"Would be a shame to break these," he muttered. Then his lips replaced his hands and all the air went straight out of Jemma's lungs. Her knees started wobbling, and she worried they wouldn't carry her much longer.

"Could we move this to the bed?" she asked. Next thing she knew, Jemma was lying flat on the bed and Fitz was slowly rendering her insane with his slow exploration of her body. She might have been embarrassed by the needy sounds continuously coming out of her mouth, if for the air of giddy satisfaction and pride etched on Fitz's features.

"You look like you're having fun," she breathed, fighting to keep her voice steady.

"Huh-huh," he conceded, reluctantly tearing his mouth away from her skin. "Turns out, I'm better at this than I thought."

Jemma gave a bark of a laugh, and he responded with another radiant smile.

"Fair enough," she grinned. "But what about my fun?"

Fitz's face rapidly decomposed. "You– I thought this was–"

"Yes," she was quick to assure him, "absolutely. But look at you," she said, bunching the fabric of his shirt. "You're fully dressed."

From the moment she started unbuttoning his shirt, his nervousness returned in full force and his entire demeanour changed. Gone was the playful, joyous, self-satisfied Fitz– his limbs had gone rigid, and he seemed to be bunching himself, bracing before every touch, ready to jump right out of his skin.

Jemma sat back on her heels and frowned. "You know, we can stop, if you like," she offered. "We could watch a movie or something. Start again later. Or not. It's entirely up to you."

"No, no, I'm okay," he said, his tone adamant, if slightly shaky. "Just– pretty worked up."

"Well, I should hope so." Jemma did her best not to roll her eyes to the heavens. "You've been making out for half an hour with a practically naked woman. And in case you couldn't tell from all the sex noises, I'm quite worked up as well!"

"Yeah, but–"

"No buts. You need to stop worrying over this, Fitz. It's not like the movies," she said, ignoring his groan. 'The movies' were still a murky area they tended to steer clear from. "We can finish and start again. I'm fairly certain your erection will return, eventually." Again, she disregarded his embarrassed huffing sounds. "Besides, we could only do foreplay tonight. That's fine by me."

"No," he said, shaking his head vehemently.

She sighed. "You just want to be done with it? Is that it?"

He thought it over for a few long seconds. "Yes, and no. I like this. Everything we've been doing. I really love your sex noises," he admitted with a tight smile, earning a smirk from her. "But I don't think I can– it would feel too much like a failure to stop."

"Okay, then," she said with a slight shrug. "We'll make it work."

"What are you doing?" he asked in a panicked voice when she scooted down his body and started working on his belt.

"Taking the edge off," she said with a defiant smile. "The night's still young."

* * *

Some time later, Jemma crawled up Fitz's body to lay her head on his chest. He barely seemed to register her movement, slack-faced and spent as he was. After a beat, his arm wrapped around her, his fingers buried in her hair, and she instantly felt swaddled in his warmth, lulled by the thumping of his heart. She could have cried from the sheer pleasure of finally knowing this degree of intimacy with him– she'd been craving it for too long.

"Are you alright?" she asked, idly running her fingers over his skin.

"I don't know," he replied, his eyes still shut. "Am I dead? Because it feels like I'm dead."

Amused, Jemma patted his shoulder. "You'll bounce back, more quickly than you think, in all probability. I have faith in you."

"I feel like I should thank you," he said, his smile plainly audible in his voice.

"Please don't," she snickered. "I assure you, what I've just done? It wasn't nearly as altruistic as you seem to believe."

"What about– reciprocation? Don't you want me to–"

"I'm good," she shrugged. "For now."

They kept quiet for long, pleasantly idle minutes, until Fitz tentatively asked, "Do you want to kiss some more?"

Jemma immediately inched closer. "Yes, please."

The kissing was lazy and languid at first, a slow exploration turning more heated as he recovered. Fitz's hands were growing more confident as they roamed her body, and she could almost sense the moment he felt ready to move things along as anticipation overcame the last of his fears–finally.

"Fitz," she said, her breath catching in her throat. She wanted to look him in the eye, to be as connected as two human beings could be. He raised his forehead from hers, looking down at her with wonder and awe. "You're not a virgin anymore."

"I know." His boyish smile was blinding, and she vowed to commit it to memory before he bent his head down to kiss the tip of her nose, the corner of her lips, her fluttering eyelids.

When she knotted her legs around his waist, he gasped so loudly it sounded like a yelp. His mouth drew a thin line as he began gritting his teeth, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration. He remained eerily still for longer than Jemma thought even possible in such situations.

"It's okay to move, you know?"

"I don't think that's a very good idea," he replied, his voice strained. Sweat was pearling on his forehead and his arms were shaking with the exertion of keeping still.

"Ugh, Fitz," she huffed. "We've been over this," she said, and rolled her own hips just to spite him.

"Not the only thing soon to be over, then," he warned.

"Whatever happened to 'stop thinking, just do'?"

"I can't believe you're arguing with me now," he groaned. "Now!"

Then, losing his battle against himself, he began to move against her, bending his head to drop sloppy kisses along her throat. Fitz, it turned out, was very good at following directions, surprisingly focused and really quite invested in the end game– it was a good thing, she thought idly, that he enjoyed her sex noises.

* * *

"Your feet are freezing," Fitz mumbled.

"Mmhmm." She kept on lazily tracing lines up and down his calf with her foot.

"That really happened, didn't it?" he asked sleepily, while Jemma pulled the sheet up on both of them and settled in, kissing his shoulder and slipping her fingers between his. She couldn't seem to stop touching him, and he all but purred with each new touch.

"Yes, it really did," she said, biting a smile. "I can testify, if needed."

"Don't even joke about that." Fitz stifled a yawn and stretched an arm. "There's a good chance Hunter will try interrogating you, and he's not nearly as subtle as he thinks he is."

"It's sweet, though. How invested he is."

"Nearly cost me you, though," in a would-be grumpy tone that came out half-wistful, half-exhausted.

"Dramatic, much?" Jemma cupped his jaw, enjoying the feel of scruff under her palm. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me, Dr. Fitz."

"Whatever did I do to deserve this?" he replied in mock affliction. "I was just doing my job, minding my own business and then–"

"Hush, now," she said, before she shut him up properly with another kiss.


	7. Epilogue: Love Gods

Movie Mondays, Takeout Thursdays and Supper Saturdays were much easier, logistically speaking, now that they were living together.

It had been an adjustment at first. Fitz hadn't had a roommate since he'd finished his doctorate, and had furnished and organized his apartment without ever considering the possibility of sharing it with a woman one day. As much as he liked having Jemma in his space– their space– he wasn't used to making small talk over breakfast, or to his bathroom smelling of flowery products, and even less to maintaining a strict household chores schedule. Jemma, as he soon learned, was much fussier than he was. In the end, he had to retire some of his stuff to a storage facility, but only to make room for hers.

From the day he'd gotten her to stop storing gross things in the fridge, things had been running very smoothly indeed. As much as he had liked spending time at her place in the early stages of their relationship, making memories in his own was incredibly satisfying, now they were partners in every sense of the word. They'd even taken to finish each other's sentences, when they were not talking over each other in intricately knotted conversations no one else could ever hope to follow. They were, in both Daisy and Hunter's opinion, absolutely nauseating.

Incidentally, the timing for their moving in together had been perfect for everyone. Daisy and Lincoln had been considering a similar arrangement for some time, and the apartment she and Jemma used to share was much closer to the hospital where Lincoln worked than his old condo.

Now Mack and Elena were officially an item as well, everyone around them seemed to be revelling in unholy matrimony. Well, everyone except Hunter, who vehemently refused to even consider any kind of relationship that didn't start with a swipe– or lasted more than a few hours. Bobbi, for her part, pretended to be as unaffected as ever, but the way she looked at him when she thought she could get away with it wasn't lost on anyone but Hunter himself.

* * *

Sunday mornings were the best. Fitz and Jemma had taken to having brunch in bed– it had been a long negotiation, and he'd only won because Sunday also happened to be sheet-changing day. They would share a copious meal, the occasional mimosa and a movie or a show, while enjoying each other's proximity and near-nakedness– and whatever else might ensue. On one of those mornings, they were watching Amy Acker and Alexis Denisof be conned into a relationship by their family and friends– in luxurious Shakespearean language– when an idea popped into their head at the exact same time.

"Do you think–"

"What if–"

"–would work on–"

"–suspect something, but Hunter–"

"–definitely fall for it–"

"–must be discreet–"

"–would kill us –"

"–but if it works–"

"–yeah, if it works..."

"It's a plan, then," Jemma said decisively, linking their hands as they grinned at each other, delighting in their effortless complicity.

"If we can do this, then Cupid is no longer an archer; his glory shall be ours, for we are the only love gods," Fitz recited pompously, and Jemma burst into a fit of laughter so uproarious she almost knocked over her tray.

"It's amazing, though, isn't it?" she said, once she had recovered some composure and set aside their dishes. "How human relationships haven't changed all that much in over 400 years? And that what was funny then is still funny today?"

Fitz smirked. "Do you think 16th century you and 16th century me would be lying in bed, obnoxiously plotting to force our 16th century friends into the same kind of marital bliss we're enjoying ourselves?"

"Probably," she grinned, scooting closer so she could lie halfway on top of him. "I mean, we would have to get married first, of course–"

The words were barely out of her mouth that already, Jemma was blushing furiously and attempting to retract her untimely statement, while Fitz could only gape at her, wide-eyed, looking like he'd been taken completely off guard.

"Do you– are you–"

"I didn't mean–"

"–'cause I've been thinking about–"

"–really, please, forget I said–"

"–for a while now, a long while–"

"–that I'm forcing your hand–"

"–didn't think you were ready–"

"–can wait–"

"–can't wait–"

Silence fell abruptly upon them while they stared at each other, piecing scraps of sentences together, their mouths stretching into mirroring smile.

"Not like this, though," Fitz said softly, his fingers combing through her hair. "Let me ask you properly."

"Of course," she nodded, and craned her neck to pepper his jaw with kisses until she reached the place where it met his ear.

He looked up to her with a lopsided grin, earning himself another languid kiss at the corner of his lips. "I'm so glad you destroyed your poor laptop that one time," he said, his voice full of mirth and tenderness.

"Ugh, not the stupid laptop again," she huffed in mock reprimand, rolling her eyes, before she resumed her affectionate mapping of his face. "Will you be quiet, now? I'm trying to show you some pre-marital bliss."


End file.
